November Thirteenth
It was thus that Claude brought home his wife. Two months before he
had been married to her in Dr. Carroll's chapel by Aimé St. Quentin,
with all Annapolis to witness; and next day he left America on the
_Baltimore_, in company with Deborah, and her very modest little
travelling coffer. Truly bridal weather was theirs. The skies were
fair, seas calmly blue, and continuous light western winds, sent by
the very gods themselves, carried them straight to the English coast.
All told, they were on the ship but six weeks--six strange,
half-terrible weeks to the colonial girl. She was learning to know
her husband, and he her. In a way, not always, but by spells,
Deborah was happy. She loved the sea, and she grew to be very fond
of the ship, clinging to it during the last days of the voyage as she
had not clung to her far Maryland home. She had become dimly
apprehensive of the life into which she was going, of which Claude
had lately told her so much more than he could do during their
comradeship in Annapolis. He also made her speak with him much in
the French tongue, which she did readily enough at first, in a manner
caught from St. Quentin, her first instructor. But when it came to
using no English, to hearing none from Claude, her tongue faltered,
and she would remain silent for hours at a time rather than appear
awkward before him. Claude was very gentle. He made her finally
understand, however, how much easier it would be for her to make
mistakes now, than to do so in the land to which they were going. He
told her the story of Marie Leczinska, who had acquired all her
knowledge of the language of her adopted country from a waiting-maid
who spoke a Provençal patois, and how the Queen was ridiculed by all
the Court till she studied secretly, many hours a day, with her
confessor, and was now, when she chose to exert herself, one of the
most excellent linguists in France. So Deborah took heart, and tried
more bravely, until, by the time they had crossed the English Channel
and landed in Calais, none but a close observer could have found a
flaw in her ordinary conversation.
Claude de Mailly himself passed a very contented six weeks on the
Atlantic. A day or two after his marriage the realization of that
marriage, its haste, its rashness, its short-sightedness, the fact
that his wife had not one drop of blue blood in her veins, came over
him in such a wave that he was half drowned. What was it that he had
done? Who was he carrying back with him to the most fastidious, the
most critical Court in Christendom? A bourgeois! A Provençal! A
child! And Claude, with angry, anxious injustice, for three days
avoided his wife, and barely saw her except at meals. The thing that
reattracted his attention to her was the fact that, during this time,
Deborah never made the slightest attempt to force her presence upon
him. If she were unhappy, he did not know it. He never saw her
weep; he heard no word of complaint. And this unusual thing piqued
his interest. On the fourth morning he found her sitting alone in
the stern of the vessel, gazing back at the western horizon with
far-off eyes. Seating himself beside her, he leaned over and took
one of her hands in his. She turned towards him instantly, looked at
him for a moment, and then drew it quietly away.
"You needn't do that," she said.
And then it was that Claude knew how glad he was to do it--to have
the right to do it. And thereupon he threw care to the winds and
became her slave. He, too, regretted the end of the voyage, when it
came. Nevertheless, he had, in the past, suffered severely from
homesickness, and Paris, Versailles, Henri, Elise, and, more than all
of them together, his other cousin, were constantly in his mind. He
dreamed and talked of them when he slept, and, if Deborah had been
proficient enough in French to make out the half-coherent sentences
that passed her husband's lips at night, she would probably have
learned still more about her approaching life in this way.
Unquestionably, Deborah dreaded the new life. She had reason to; not
alone because of the natural shyness attendant on a country girl's
first appearance at a great Court. She knew that Claude's whole
existence was bound up there. She believed that he cared rather more
than he actually did about this life that she had never lived. In
consequence, upon the drive of several days from Calais to Paris,
Deborah grew more and more silent, more and more definitely
apprehensive, with each new stage. On the evening of November 8th
they arrived at Issy, and there spent the night. Next morning Claude
rose with the sun, some time before Deborah even awoke. He went
outside of their post-house and walked delightedly through the
familiar streets, listening to his own language spoken with his own
accent on every hand, discovering well-known shops and buildings, and
returning in the highest spirits to Deborah at nine o'clock. They
had their chocolate and rolls together, Deborah eating little and
silently, Claude jesting and laughing continually till she was roused
out of her apathy by his thoughtlessness towards her. It was not,
however, till they were rolling along the Paris road that she
spoke--in English:
"Well, Claude, you have brought your Madame the Countess home to the
King. He'll be satisfied, I hope."
Apparently both the allusion and the bitterness were lost upon him.
He only answered with a bright smile: "I am satisfied, my Deborah.
What the King thinks is not my concern. Oh, I had not told you, had
I?--that the King is not here. He is coming home with the army next
Saturday, the 13th, from Strasbourg. You know he has been fighting
all summer. They are going to give him a triumph on his return.
There will be a procession through the street, and the King will ride
in it. You will see him then, Deborah. Shall you like it all?"
"I--don't know. I never saw a king," responded the girl, interested
in spite of herself in the anticipation of these hitherto scarcely
dreamed-of glories.
At half-past eleven o'clock their chaise passed the barrier, and they
rolled down the narrow street towards the river, in Paris at last.
Claude himself was quiet now. He was a little anxious; he could not
be sure just what he should find "at home." Moreover, the familiar
streets and sounds no longer raised his spirits. Instead, they came
so near to bringing tears to his eyes, that he was relieved when
Deborah asked:
"Where are we going? To another inn?"
"I am not sure. I have directed the man to the Hôtel de Mailly.
But, if no one is there, we must go to an inn. Look, Deborah, there
is the Seine, there is the Pont Royal, and there, just ahead, is
Henri's house, where we are going. Are you glad--little one?"
* * * * * * *
It was half-past ten o'clock that night before Claude and his wife
were again alone together. They had left the salon thus early
through weariness, leaving the rest of the family party to disband as
it would. Neither the Count nor Deborah spoke till the suite of
apartments assigned them on the second floor had been gained and the
door to their antechamber closed. Deborah was going on to what she
supposed must be their bedroom, when Claude caught her hand.
"Surely you are going to say good-night?" he asked, smiling.
"_Good-night_! Why--I don't understand," she said, quickly.
Of a sudden the smile left Claude's face. He had not thought of this
before. "There, Debby, is your room--on this side is mine. A maid
whom Mme. de Mailly-Nesle has kindly lent you is waiting for you.
Henri's valet is there--where I sleep. We do not occupy the same
room. It--it is not the custom. Therefore sit here with me for a
few moments, and tell me--how you like them all--my family?"
Deborah stared at him in bewilderment during the explanation; but,
true to her nature, she accepted it without comment, permitting
herself to be drawn down upon the little sofa where he sat, and
passively leaving her hands in his.
"Tell me now--do you like them?"
Deborah hesitated. "What mistakes did I make?" she asked, finally.
"Not one, my Deborah, save that you were not insolent enough."
She smiled faintly. "I like Monsieur le Marquis."
"And he you! Yes, you must love him for my sake. He is more than my
brother. And his wife?"
"_Is_ she his wife, Claude? Why does he always call her madame? Why
did you call me madame? And she treated him so--so formally."
"_Parbleu!_ you are right; they do not know each other very well,
else she could hardly help loving him; and she would not be so
bourgeois as that! Do you like her? She was kinder to you, Debby,
than I have ever seen her to any woman. Answer me--dost like her?"
"Yes--I liked her. She never looked at me when she spoke, and she
scarcely spoke to any one else."
"True. She does not approve them. But Elise--Mme. de Lauraguais--"
"Yes, she is very pleasant, and a little pretty, too."
"And now--now--you met Mme. de Châteauroux. What do you think of
her?" Claude asked the question firmly, after a struggle with himself.
Deborah turned crimson, and started to rise from her place, but de
Mailly gently held her back. He would have his answer; and it was
given him. After all, he had married a woman, and one whose
feelings, though often unexpressed, were none the less acute. She
voiced them now. "Claude--I hate her! She is not pretty. Her face
is hideous! She was rude to me, to her sister, to the Marquise, to
every one but you. And you sat beside her almost the whole
afternoon. Ah! I cannot bear her! Mme. de Mailly told me why she
was in Paris, how she had been made to leave the King. Claude, are
you not ashamed that she is of your blood?"
Deborah was on her feet now, and flung her words straight at her
husband. He sat silent, quite still, rather pale, through the
outburst. After it he did not answer her question, but only murmured
to himself, "Why do women so seldom like her?" Then, looking up at
his wife, he said, kindly:
"Deborah, you know that I have always been fond of my cousin.
I--have been very proud of her. So have we all. Was it unnatural
that she should wish to talk with me after we had been separated for
so long?"
Deborah jerked her head impatiently. "I do not like her," she
reiterated, with dogged displeasure.
Claude rose, with a faint sigh. "Your French was wonderfully good.
I was very pleased, dear. To-morrow--you shall have some costumes
ordered. Naturally, yours are a little ancient in mode. Good-night."
"Good-night."
He kissed her upon the forehead, and would have turned away, but that
suddenly she flung her arms about his neck passionately, and, raising
her lips to his ear, whispered: "Claude--Claude--I am a stranger
here. You are all I have of--the old life. Be--be kind to me."
It was almost the first emotion that he had ever seen her display,
and his heart was warm as he took her tenderly into his arms again,
whispering such words as only lovers know. Five minutes later
Deborah crept away to her room happier than she had been before upon
the soil of France; and not even the somewhat terrifying stiffness of
madame's maid, nor the loneliness of this strange room, had power to
banish the memory of her husband's good-night.
The four succeeding days passed both rapidly and slowly. From late
morning till late night Deborah's hours were filled. She and Claude
were to remain at the Hôtel de Mailly till the return of the King,
after which they would take an apartment in Versailles. For the
purpose of selecting one, they went together to the little city on
Thursday. In the Rue Anjou, near the pièce des Suisses, they
discovered a very pretty abode in the second floor of a house--rooms
once occupied by the Chevalier de Rohan, of duelistic fame, furnished
and hung in perfect taste, with precisely the number of rooms
desired. Then Deborah went to see the monstrous, silent palace and
park; after which she and Claude dined together at a café in the open
air, quite _à la bourgeois_, somewhat to the unspoken apprehension of
Claude, who was not pleased with the unconventional affair, which,
however, unduly delighted his wife. They returned to Paris in the
early evening by coach, well satisfied with the day. To Deborah's
consternation, Claude next engaged a maid for her, a woman whom she
was supposed to command at will, who was to dress and undress her,
arrange her coiffure in the absence of the regular hair-dresser, care
for her wardrobe, and conduct madame's affairs of the heart with
discretion. To the little Countess's great delight, however, her
first person in this line left her service after three days, for the
reason that Mme. de Mailly seemed too devoted to monsieur the
husband, and, in consequence, there were no chances for fees of
secrecy such as she was accustomed to count upon as among her
perquisites of office. By the time of their removal to Versailles,
another attendant had been found who pleased her mistress better.
Julie was lively, young, rather pretty, and not long from the
provinces. If her modes for hair and panniers were not so Parisian
as those of her predecessor, at least she and young Mme. de Mailly
took a fancy to each other from the first, and Deborah was more than
content. Meantime Claude had happily discovered and re-engaged his
former valet, and thus, with the addition of a chef and scullion and
two lackeys, their little _ménage_ would be complete. Before all
these matters were arranged, however, the Marquise de Mailly-Nesle,
who had taken an unaccountable fancy to Claude's wife, accompanied
Deborah to a milliner, to whom was intrusted the task of preparing a
wardrobe for the Countess. Deborah watched the selections with
delight and a secret consternation. Could Claude afford such things,
and such an infinite variety of them? Finally, unable to hold her
peace about the matter, she drew the Marquise one side, and stammered
out the question of prices with pretty embarrassment.
"Mon Dieu! child, why should I ask prices? If the bill is
reasonable, be assured that Claude will pay. If it is too
large--pouf!--he will refuse to look at it! That is all. Do not be
alarmed."
Deborah, surprised and disturbed, felt that she must stop proceedings
at once, for the Maryland school of economy had been strict. But a
shimmering blue satin, with cloth of silver for petticoat, and
ruffles of Venice point, was now under consideration. Blue was her
own color. She had never worn satin in her life--and dearly she
loved its enticing swish. Why, unless Claude forbade, should she
refuse it? And Claude did not forbid. When she confessed her doubts
during their anteroom conference that evening, he laughed at her,
cried that she should live in blue satin if she chose, and asked what
she was to wear on the morrow at the royal procession.
"Oh--it is something that madame got at once--white silk brocaded
with pink flowers, and a petticoat with lace. And I am to have a
lace cap with pink ribbons."
"Charming--and good-night. Sleep late to-morrow, in preparation."
Upon this Saturday, the 13th of November, Paris did not wake up until
afternoon. By two o'clock, however, St. Antoine had left its
domicile and was dispersing itself in unkempt groups along those
streets which, as it had been posted, his Majesty would ride through
in his triumphant home-coming, on his way to the Tuileries. Marie
Leczinska and the Dauphin spent the morning in prayer, and were off
together, after a hurried dinner, to join their lord at the
southeastern barrier. On the previous day Louis had been at Meaux,
but left that town in the afternoon, and spent the night at no great
distance from Paris. To tell the truth, he was not too well pleased
at the information that his metropolis was desirous of giving him a
heroic welcome. Certainly his title of _bien-aimé_ was anything but
his own choice. Nothing bored him so thoroughly as affection taken
in the abstract. All through his early life he seemed to be
unfortunate in having about him people to whom he was totally
indifferent, yet who persisted in blindly worshipping him. In the
case of his wife, it had not always been so. As a boy he had been
devoted to her. But for the Dauphin, with his Jesuitical manners and
phrases for all occasions, his father had never pretended to care.
The daughters were more amusing. This afternoon Louis would have
been very well pleased to see them when her Majesty's coach came up
with the royal staff, in the midst of which Louis sat on horseback.
The Queen, after alighting, stood looking at her husband with wistful
yearning; but young France, dropping on one knee in a dry spot in the
road, cried out, with very good expression:
"Sire, regard me as the representative of that nation which, with
tears of devotion and thanksgiving, greets its Father, its Hero, and
its King!"
There was a little pause. Then Louis remarked, casually, "You will
catch cold without your hat, child," after which he turned to one of
his marshals with some remark upon the day.
How the Dauphin arose from his knee is not recorded.
Like all much-prepared-for cavalcades, this one was slow in starting.
His Majesty objected to the length of the route planned. He was
anxious to be at home again; and he was tired of people. Had
somebody sent for his turning-lathe? He would do a bit of work when
he reached the Tuileries. Why could not Richelieu take his place as
representative, and let him get quietly through the city in a public
coach? It was nearly dark now. Only after an endless series of
expostulations was he at last persuaded to conform to the wishes of
his people, and show himself in all the real beauty of his manhood.
Paris had waited very patiently through the bleak November afternoon,
shivering and laughing in anticipation of its pleasure. Now the
windows of every house along the way were gleaming with candles and
dotted with heads. On either side of the street torches began to be
lighted among the standing throngs. Presently, as the heavy twilight
fell lower, officers of the police began, here and there, to illumine
the long chains of lanterns that were strung along the walls of
houses, and, at short intervals, across the streets; for Paris would
admit no night yet. Every now and then, down among the standing
throngs, dashed the coach of some nobleman on the way to his own
view-point. The drivers of these vehicles took no heed of the people
in their paths. They were allowed to scramble away as best they
might, or left to be crushed beneath the horses' hoofs if they chose.
No one murmured, for the affair was quite usual.
By half-past five o'clock a goodly company was assembled in the
salons of Mme. de Mailly-Nesle; ladies who, in their eagerness to
behold the return of their King, were very willing to forget the fact
that they had ever failed to recognize the Marquise, for reasons
connected with a relative Duchess. Upon their arrival at their
hostess' _hôtel_ they found awaiting them a new sensation in the
person of Claude, and a two-weeks' subject of gossip and discussion
in Claude's foreign wife.
Deborah, arrayed in her brocade, her rebellious hair fastened stiffly
in place with a thousand pins, the enormous hoops of her overdress
annoying her as much as possible, patches and powder upon her face
and hair, with the customary rouge on her cheeks, stood beside
Victorine de Coigny, the only new-comer with whom she did not feel
ill at ease. Mesdames de Mirepoix, Rohan, and Châtelet stared at her
unceasingly, found her dress in good style, and her face, on the
whole, not bad. L'Abbé de Bernis, who, to Henri's fruitless rage,
had accompanied Victorine hither, looked upon Deborah approvingly.
As to Claude, he did not approach his wife, but he watched her,
quietly, from wherever he chanced to be, involuntarily admiring her
presence, but undeniably dreading possible _faux pas_. Of these
there had been as yet no signs. Deborah certainly was frightened,
but she did not show it. Obeying her husband's last behest, she kept
her head well up and her eyes on a level with those of the person to
whom she talked. Mme. de Coigny, lively, good-natured, bored, but
never supercilious, conversed with the little Countess for some
moments upon her journey, upon Paris, and upon the return of the
King. Deborah bravely answered her questions, and, less uncertain of
her French than she had been a week ago, even hazarded a few remarks
of her own with which the little Maréchale seemed pleased. Their
_tête-à-tête_, however, was checked in its early stages by the
beginning of a general conversation opened by one of the _dames
d'étiquette_, Mme. de Rohan, who cried to her hostess, from across
the room:
"Truly, Mme. de Nesle, you have here all the world but two people."
"And who are those?" responded the Marquise, graciously, while the
salon grew suddenly quiet.
"Those?--why, the Duc d'Agenois and your cousin, Mme. de Châteauroux.
Where, if one may ask, are they?"
There was a vaguely indefinite murmur of interest from every part of
the room. Then from la Mirepoix came another remark, one such as
only she was capable of making: "M. de Mailly--oh, I mean the
Count--you were formerly always cognizant of the whereabouts of the
dear Duchess. Can you not inform us of them now?"
The company lifted its brow and a dozen glances were cast at
Deborah--this new little creature from the Americas. "She does not
comprehend the allusion," was the general thought, when they saw her
attitude of large-eyed, inattentive innocence. Only Claude, as he
came forward a little, snuff-box in hand, turned white.
"Ah, Madame la Maréchale, you speak of by-gone days. I know the
engagements of Mme. de Châteauroux? Impossible! Am I my cousin's
keeper?"
"Perhaps," murmured the Marquise de Châtelet, sweetly, "she is to
form part of his Majesty's escort."
Silence followed this remark. Mme. de Rohan glared with displeasure
at her companion, and the Marquise flushed a little beneath her
rouge. It was too much, for once. Mme. de Mailly-Nesle, with
commendable haste, turned to her near neighbor and reinstated the
_tête-à-têtes_.
"Ah!" murmured Mme. de Coigny to Deborah, "these _dames d'étiquette_
are insufferable. They should be stricken with a plague!"
Deborah smiled very faintly, and could make no reply. One of her
hands was tightly clenched. Otherwise she appeared unconcerned
enough.
At this moment M. de Bernis, having decided the new Countess to be
rather presentable at a distance, drew nearer, with intent to
converse with her. The abbé was, to-day, in his clerical dress, and
thus Deborah acknowledged Mme. de Coigny's introduction with great
gravity. When Victorine presently turned aside to Coyer, de Bernis
began his conversation:
"Come to the window, here, madame, and look at the crowd upon the
quay. In your country I dare swear you have no such _canaille_."
"Poor things! How dirty and ragged they look in all the light,"
murmured Deborah, in English.
"You should one day drive through the Faubourg where they live; it
would interest you," returned the abbé, in the same tongue.
Deborah looked at him with a quick smile. "English sounds very dear
to me. Thank you vastly for speaking it."
"One would learn Sanscrit to gain a word of praise from your lips,
madame," was the abbé's unnecessary reply, whispered, not spoken.
The young girl was embarrassed. How could a priest say such things?
Turning her head uneasily, she found Mme. de Coigny close to her, and
beheld a new expression on that childlike, fretful face. It was as
well that, at this moment, the distant shouting of the throng
proclaimed the advance of the royal procession. Under cover of the
general hastening to the lantern-hung windows, Victorine took
occasion to murmur in de Bernis' ear:
"Why are you always cruel, François? Why will you continually
torture me so? This child, now! Have pity on her."
De Bernis shrugged impatiently. "You are silly, Victorine. It is
not my fault that you are jealous every time I speak to a woman."
They were silent for a moment. Then Mme. de Coigny, as she stared
into the torchlit street below, sighed. "Those faces--the rags--the
dirt--François, do they not remind you of our first days together in
the Court of Miracles?"
For reply the abbé silently kissed her hand.
All of Mme. de Mailly-Nesle's guests were by this time arranged in
the windows along the front of the _hôtel_. Claude, escaping from
the women who would have questioned his heart away, sought Deborah's
side. She received him with a friendly little smile that relieved
him of many fears. A silence of expectation had fallen now over the
room, for the distant sounds of shouting and cheering were increasing
in clearness.
To his intense relief, Louis' long ride was nearly over; and, almost
at its end, when there should remain only a bridge to be crossed to
the Tuileries, he was hoping for something that should repay him for
all his sacrifice of time and comfort. Since the day of the
dismissal from Metz the name of la Châteauroux had never crossed the
King's lips. But silence is not indicative of forgetfulness. On the
contrary, with every passing day Louis felt his life more intolerably
lonely, in the absence of her for whom he really cared more than any
one else. Now, as he drew near to the Hôtel de Mailly, which he knew
well, expectation and hope increased his speed, and he passed the
Théatins at a lively trot.
"See, Deborah, here is the royal regiment. Those, there, at the
head, just coming under the lights, are the marshals--ay, that is
Coigny!"
"Madame, your husband," murmured de Bernis in Victorine's ear.
"--And there are the Court pages in uniform, look--on the white
horses--Richelieu, d'Epernon, de Gêvres, de Mouhy, Trudaine--Heavens,
how familiar they all are! And here is the Queen's coach. _Voila_!
She looked out just then, at the shouts. The Dauphin is with
her--they would not let the child ride. He's all of fifteen now--is
he not, de Bernis? And _now_, Deborah--there, alone--in front of the
corps--with the torches around him--that is the King."
Deborah Travis bent her head forward towards the window till the
light from the lantern that hung above her shone full in her face.
In the street, directly below, she beheld a great sorrel charger
caparisoned in white and silver, bearing a rider also in white, with
laced coat, cloth breeches, shining black riding-boots, white hat _à
la Garde Française_, and across his breast a wide blue ribbon,
fastened with three orders. The eyes of Claude's wife flashed over
the figure and to the face, which was markedly distinct in the light
of the torches.
"Is that the _King_?" she whispered to herself, unconscious of
speaking.
At the instant that Louis passed beneath the string of lamps across
the way, Deborah's eyes fell upon his bright blue ones. As though
she possessed magnetic power, the King responded to the look. It was
not the face that he had hoped to find here, but it was one--as fair.
The royal hat came off, the royal figure bent to the saddle-bow. And
then he was gone. Deborah's cheeks were redder than her rouge.
Every woman in the room had turned to look at her, but some eyes,
perhaps, stopped at sight of Claude. His face was deathly, and upon
it was plainly written new, quickening dread; while both of his white
hands were tightly clenched over his polished nails.